


Broken Crown

by SunriseAshes



Category: Merlin (TV), Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Abhorsen!Merlin, Crossover, F/M, Royal!Arthur, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunriseAshes/pseuds/SunriseAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Morgana Pendragon turns on the man who made her his ward in order to usurp the throne from him, the Old Kingdom finds itself in turmoil. The newly made King, Arthur, must find the Abhorsen and gain his trust in order to defeat the necromantic forces that stand behind Morgana and her cause. What he finds is a magic older than the Charter itself and a kingdom that threatens to unravel right between his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Breaking of the Guardian

A bandolier of bells and a Charter-kissed longsword were his only weapons, his target a faction of local renegades who had grouped up to cause havoc across the Borderlands. He knew that the bandolier across his chest was unnecessary, and that he could get by with just his sword, but old habits die hard and the Borderlands could throw up any number of dangers. It would be foolish not to take the tools of his trade.

Another reason for his precaution was purely instinctive. For days now he had felt a sense of impending danger, like the tides were turning against him and his, against the lands he fervently defended. He knew better then to rule out destiny and he knew well enough that the path often chose the walker. There were powerful forces at play in the world tonight and no matter how hard he tried, he could not ignore them.

Still, he clung to the hope that he would be back with his wife and son within the hour. A foolish move for a man of his stature, but then he had grown old and weary and reserved in recent years, behaving in ways that went against every fibre of his being. If he could only hold on to the life he had built for a while longer then maybe he could find the strength to prevent those cracks beneath his feet turning into fissures. Maybe, just maybe, things would turn out right and he would end the night on a high.

This burdened traveller went by the name of Balinor, but the smallfolk referred to him as Abhorsen. He did not object, because it gave his true name a sense of privacy and intimacy that only those close to his heart knew. It also let him pretend that the two lives he led were separate from one another and not like to overlap, as though by keeping his names apart so too could he keep his two roles apart. Nestled at the heart of this foolish desire was the need to keep his wife safe and free from the dangers that stalked him. Deeper in his heart than that lay the notion that by keeping his birth name and title apart he could somehow avoid the fate of his predecessors, whose identites had been slowly washed away by the waters of Death and their obligation to protect the Old Kingdom.

Balinor feared the loss of his identity more than anything. He did not want to sacrifice family to servitude. He did not want to drown in loneliness. He wanted comfort and love. He wanted to be a good husband to his wife and a loving father to his child, but he could not hide from his duty. Instead, he lived two lives and prayed to the Charter above for protection and guidance every single day.

He knew the game he played was nothing but childish and deluded, but Balinor still believed he could not only choose which path he walked, but also walk two paths at the same time without any consequences. As he grew older and sadder he increasingly craved the security of his wife’s arms and the light in his son’s eyes. This is what had driven him out in the dark of night in the pursuit of bandits and this was why he feared the repercussions of his life choices.

The need to protect his wife and son had become increasingly more important than his task of laying the Dead back to rest and destroying necromancers. He did not patrol the borders between Life and Death as much as he had in his youth, instead choosing the patrol the banks of the Ratterlin in pursuit of thieves who threatened his home and hearth. Balinor hung his head. If only his uncle could see him now. That man had been Abhorsen down to his core, refusing to take a wife to the point where his nephew was named Abhorsen-in-Waiting at the tender age of twelve.

 _You damn fool_ , Balinor thought to himself bitterly, _you have let the Dead rise and the necromancers plot and you can sense it, you can see the doom swirling in the air_.

Yet he continued walking towards what he felt was his only way forward.

Tall drifts of snow made the going hard, but it was not as bad as it might have been if the heavy snowstorms of late were still unloading their flakes across the Old Kingdom. Balinor shivered deeper into his cloak and rechecked his sword. It rested loosely in its sheath and he immediately felt better, although he still eyed the drifts warily. Anyone could be hiding deep within the drifts, though they would be fools to do so. A man might find himself struck with frostbite before his prey even emerged, but these were desperate times which often called for desperate measures. Balinor never once ignored his surroundings.

So intent was he on the sparse trees around him that Balinor failed to notice that the river was about to curve sharply inwards. It took him a moment to place his location and once he had, Balinor stopped dead in his tracks. His bearings told him that he could not be too far off the camp of the renegades and his sense of Death told him that further up the road were dead humans. The presence of such a magnitude of Death pressed down upon his head like the beginnings of a migraine and he knew at once that a horrific act had happened here. The reek of power meant the deaths were fresh enough to send fear tearing through the heart of the seasoned Abhorsen. Either the bandits he was tracking had moved from petty thievery into murder or they had met their untimely demise at the hand of another with much more sinister motives.

Balinor unsheathed his sword fully, the Charter marks bursting into life as held his weapon out ahead of him. After a moment, the Abhorsen also drew out one of his seven bells: Saraneth. He made sure to grip the bell by the clapper as he removed Saraneth from his bandolier so that no sound was made. Concern pounded around Balinor's body as he picked out the path that would lead him to the dead humans ahead. With a silent prayer to the Charter, Balinor made his way towards the banks of the Ratterlin.

Slowly, precisely, the scene came into Balinor's view. The first thing he sought was the old Charter Stone that stood sentry along this worn-road. He found it easily enough, for it now wore a coat of red that contrasted starkly against the pure white snow. Despair resonated through him when he spotted the still Charter marks upon the stone. They had been reduced to dead inscriptions through a sinful act: the sacrifice of a Charter Mage.

The next things to come to his awareness were the bandits, all of which stood awkwardly around the Charter Stone. Upon first glance they looked unharmed, but when Balinor looked closer he found that wide, red smiles spread from ear-to-ear across their throats. Their deaths had been as quick as their return to Life, indicating the work of a strong necromancer. 

His eyes found the necromancer last. She was languishing upon the broken Charter Stone, her eyes bright in the moonlight. With a sense of ease and no fear at all, she slid down the slick surface of the stone and rose to her full height, amusement dancing upon her face. Balinor now knew one thing above all else: he was in true peril.

"Abhorsen, you took your time."

The necromancer was a woman who, for all intents and purposes, looked innocent and uncorrupted. Her hair fell in blond waves around her head and her skin was a nut brown. Her eyes were also brown, warm and alight with mischief. Balinor placed the appearance as a skin. No Free Magic sorcerer practiced the art for long without paying a price, especially not one who walked in and out of Death. Even the Abhorsen paid a price for walking the river of Death, his skin bleached so that barely any colour remained.

"I presume you are wearing a skin so not to scare those you intend to kill." 

“You would presume correctly, my lord. I wear the skin of my youth. I always did have a penchant for sentimentality and it seems fitting to walk this earth with the face that was once loved by many. It has been a while since I appeared so innocent and hungry. The world robbed that from me when it taught me that possibilities only exist for the privileged. I soon learned the hard way that Life can offer me nothing but pain and misery.”

“So this is why you walk Death when it is not yours to walk. This is why you offer pain and misery to others who do not deserve such treatment.” Balinor knew not to get caught up in the games of this sorceress, but his heart was hammering in his chest and he was too out of practice to properly plan a way forwards. He had arrived at this point wilfully unprepared, and for what? To teach a band of vain and reckless men a lesson they would not forget, and not to get caught up in a game of cat and mouse with a necromancer. _Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?_ _The path_ , his mind cried. He felt that in his bones.

“I do have an affinity with misery. That calling came to me soon after I grew to womanhood. However I play a different role today. I am here to destroy you, Abhorsen.”

“And what makes you believe you can succeed where so many others failed?”

“You have grown soft,” the woman replied simply, her lips curling into a smirk. “You, a renowned warrior of old who would much rather play house with wife and son. You, a creature of duty who somehow failed to teach his heir all he needs to know about being the Abhorsen, failed to recognise him at all as the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. You, who thought it wise to come out in the black of night to deal with petty thieves when you should be safe without the walls of your house. And not just any house, my lord, but Abhorsen’s House. As it is, you have walked to your demise, leaving your son alone with no protection and no means of continuing your legacy. You have effectively secured the destruction of the Charter. That is the game I play. That is the role I have. Tonight we will put the pieces in place so that the fall of the Old Kingdom is all but assured when the time is ripe.”

Balinor stilled. "You talk too much."

Without another word, Balinor raised his sword and Saraneth, but he never got the chance to release one note from his bell. Instead, the crowd of Dead Hands around the necromancer surged forwards, preparing to attack as one. Saraneth fell to the floor with a thud as Balinor stumbled backwards, the sound it might have made muffled by the snow as the man tried to quickly counter the multiple attacks coming at him from all sides.

At first, he managed to slice through the Dead Hands, the Charter marks on his blade blazing brightly whenever the sword made contact with reanimated flesh. Hands dropped like flies, at least four of them, but the group of bandits had been plentiful and there were still at least seven pouring towards him like a torrent of water. They might have been sluggish, but they were many.

An arm snaked around his waist as he desperately danced further back and a dagger slid across his neck, drawing beads of blood. _This is it_ , Balinor thought, but rather than cut deeper, the necromantic sorceress slipped a hand into his bandolier. She drew out his fifth bell while he struggled to keep his neck from the blade and then moved lithely away from him.

 _Belgaer_ , Balinor thought in horror.

In the time it took him to face the woman, she had flicked her wrist and released a peal of sound into the silent night. It echoed across the river and danced around the broken Charter Stone, before it settled upon the Abhorsen and wiped all thoughts from his mind. The accursed sorceress swung her arm around in an arc for a second time and another peal of music crackled through the air.

Balinor swayed drunkenly as he felt his memories and identity be lifted clean from his mind. Tears streamed down his face and froze on his cheeks as rapidly as the reasons for the tears disappeared from existence. He clutched his sword tightly in both hands and lifted it into the air as though he could physically beat down the notes with sheer force. Eventually, his arms dropped back down to his sides uselessly as he forgot how to fight and why he was fighting in the first place.

 _It would have been kinder to kill him_ , the necromancer thought mildly as she finished her sorrowful lullaby. However, they had need of him and it would do them no good to create a new Abhorsen years before they were ready for him.

Balinor stood with an absolutely stillness, his face blank and devoid of all emotion. The sorceress wasted no time in stripping him of his bandolier and sword, giving both of them to a Dead Hand that stood beside her.

“Who am I?” the man croaked, language still at his disposal.

“You are mine.”

“I am yours?”

“Yes. You belong to me and you will do my bidding. First of all we will need to relieve you off that surcoat and dress you more demurely. It would not do, to have the smallfolk recognise you on our journey north, would it?”

The broken Abhorsen said nothing. The woman who undid him smiled languidly, enjoying the utter sense of control this gave her.

"Do you wish to say goodbye to your son? It is like that you will not see him again."

"Son?"

The woman laughed cruelly. "This shall be an enjoyable experience."


	2. Prologue: The Binding of the Daughter

The Bastard Ward and the Golden Boy were destined to go their separate ways.

A few months ago Morgana would never have believed it, even if a Clayr had informed her they had Seen it would be so. How could she believe them when her faith in Arthur was implacable? Not Arthur. Not her brother. If anyone had dared warn her of things to come she would have insisted he  _loved_ her and would never leave her at the wayside like Uther had. He would never dismiss her. 

Yet here she stood, watching in the long shadows cast by the palace as the Golden Boy basked in his most recent of victories, the sunlight catching his hair in such a way that he lit up with an ethereal glow. He spent most of his time crowing in victory. That, or tucked away in a tower, tutors coming at his beck and call to learn him in the ways of the monarchy, far too busy to even greet his sister in the mornings. Uther had finally won their drawn-out war by effectively plucking the one meaningful thing from her life.

Without Arthur to cheer her during the day, Morgana had nothing to do but creep about the passages of the palace by herself. There were no tutors for her, save one that taught her the ways of a lady, and there were no triumphs or friends to celebrate with. Just the expansive grounds to roam and the growing realisation she was a glorified prisoner, nothing more.

Morgana would have no place in the Court when she matured. There would be no-one coming to her for counsel, no-one laughing merrily at her jokes, no-one respectfully greeting her as she swept through the grounds. She would be married off, probably to a man of low nobility, and forgotten. The turn of history would wash her completely out of this family tree and Uther would finally be free of her, his greatest mistake. Well, the King had severely underestimated her if he thought she would go  _meekly_. Not she.

She eyed her brother for a moment longer, bitterness swelling in her heart until she could no longer stand to look at him. She darted further into the shadows in order to spend time away from the palace. She knew her father would relish her absence as it would give him time to pretend that she didn't exist. It infuriated him no end that he had to feed her, clothe her,  _educate_ her. Oh, the bitterness ran all the way through her now, the taste metallic on her tongue as she fled towards the outer palace wall.

 _Jealousy is unbecoming_ , she thought, _but I do wear it well_.

Morgana moved lithely, avoiding the attention of the guards, servants and courtiers as they crawled about the gardens like greedy little ants, desperate for the tiniest of crumbs from the Royal plate. She was an expert in hiding in plain sight, having learned at a young age it was always better that Uther never see her for his wrath was terrible to behold. This proved an invaluable skill as Morgana grew, enabling her to break free of the palace and run through the alleys and streets of Belisaere proper. She had believed that no-one would ever know as no-one in the palace cared enough to miss her. She had been wrong. Arthur knew.

She shook her head angrily, trying to quell the tears in her eyes. She did not care about Arthur. She did  _not_. She did not want his approval. She did not want his love. No, no, no!

Morgana paused to catch her breath, hands pressed against the cool marble of the palace wall to steady herself. Arthur was lost to her. It would not do to dwell on old times. She would only achieve fresh pain that way. No, she needed to bury any affection still left to Arthur and return to Belisaere where her true friends awaited her.

The first time Morgana had entered Belisaere unattended she had been overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the city. Smallfolk were so different to the courtiers and noblefolk she had been surrounded by growing up. They were loud and brash and they screamed, shoved and shouted at each other, so much so that Morgana had gotten all turned about and lost. The Golden Boy had come riding to the rescue, having seen her disappear from the palace grounds, but rather than chastise her and escort her home, he had given her a small tour. That was how they had found the sick little boy.

 _Daneel_ , she remembered. And that was how it started.

Feeling a little more together, Morgana straightened her back and walked haughtily to the loose grate she had discovered three years back. Her freedom awaited her on the other side. She could be important in Beliseare. She could be a heroine and use her Royal blood for some good, to ease the damage Uther's reign caused unluckier smallfolk. It felt good and allowed Morgana to utilise the one thing she had an affinity for: Charter Magic.

The thought of the Charter made Morgana long for it. With the lightest of touches to the Charter mark on her head, Morgana found herself immediately being plunged into the neverending flow of magic that protected all of the Old Kingdom. It felt warm, secure and  _alive_. Contentment and a sense of reassurement settled over her as she removed her fingers from her forehead. All would be well so long as she had Charter Magic.

Without wasting another moment, Morgana set about sliding the grate aside so she could wiggle through the tiny gap behind it. The metallic screech of metal on granite gave her a moment of concern when it cut through the still air, but no guards came running over to escort her back into the palace, allowing Morgana to continue with her plans. A moment later she stood on the other side of the palace wall, the grate covering the gap in the stonework in order to mask her pathway into the city.

A small giggle escaped from Morgana as she started her way down Palace Hill. She almost skipped with joy, but restrained herself as she neared the city proper, constantly aware of the people around her. Who knew what their prying eyes might see and what their lips might whisper to the guards on the palace gate? Better to remain sombre so that she looked just like another merchant's daughter or visitor from the southern parts of the Old Kingdom. 

With that in mind Morgana tugged her cloak tighter around her body in order to better disguise herself. She would not allow herself to be caught by her father's guards before she had conducted her meeting.

She wandered through the central arch of one of the many aqueducts that encircled the captial. The aqueducts were the most important part of the city's defense against the Dead, standing vigil around the central valley and Palace Hill, a fact that always sent a shiver down Morgana's spine. Such a small thing to be dependent upon and there were still parts of Belisaere that did not have well maintained aqueducts. The outer edges of the city did not concern King Uther and Morgana only received punishments when she reminded him of his duty to protect all.

Unconciously Morgana rubbed the most recent of her bruises, her fingers carefully running over her cheek as she wandered towards King's Road. The city of Belisaere meant a lot to her, as did its people, and she often pointed out Uther's shortcomings after returning from a trip to the heart of the capital. This insolence would always trigger the King's anger, yet Morgana would not back down. Somebody needed to stand up to the mad acts of the King and his son never would. Chasing off the Abhorsen was the worst of Uther's rash acts, yet it was not him who bore the brunt of those consequences. 

That is why Morgana had taken it upon herself to patrol Belisaere at least once a week, which in turn is how she met two of her closest, and only, friends. Now instead of doing small, meaningless tasks that would do little to turn Uther from the throne, she could put major pieces in place to overthrow him completely. The thought made her gleeful. 

"Morgana?"

The voice interrupted Morgana's daydreams, startling her enough that she began casting a spell. When she found the familiar face amongst the dozens of strangers, she relaxed and let her hands drop to her sides. 

"Morgause!"

The woman, Morgause, embraced the young girl tightly, lightly stroking her cheek where the bruise lay dark against her pale skin. She made no move to heal it, as she no doubtless could, but instead frowned deeply.

"He hurt you again."

"It is no more than I can cope with. A slight bruise. He specifically forbade me from fixing it, in order to remind myself of the lesson. I must not bring the ruined aqueducts up again," Morgana explained in as light a voice as she could manage.

"That will be his undoing, child. He will rue the day he decided not to listen to you. Those aqueducts will not hold the Dead off forever, especially not one of the Greater Dead," her eyes lit up with mischief. "Oh, all the seeds he is sowing will one day flourish into his downfall. I will not miss the King Fool. But you have not mentioned his son, Arthur. How deep does Uther's streak run through him?"

"Oh Morgause, too deep, I fear!" Tears welled in Morgana's eyes again as she remembered her brother and the way he used to steal the best cuts of meat for her from Uther's own table. "It is as you say. Uther is teaching him to be a cruel, treacherous King just like himself. I used to think all would be well when Arthur took to the throne, but he will barely look at me these days. I have lost him, Morgause. I have lost the one person I truly cared for."

"Do not cry, child. You still have myself and my son. We will not abandon you. We will enable you to become the ruler this kingdom deserves. We will school you in the ways of negotiation, democracy, Charter Magic, battle. Anything and everything that you might need in order to be a just and caring Queen. The kingdom will love you as I love you. We will make sure that no-one ever goes without. We will forget no-one, but first we must rid the Old Kingdom of the Pendragons and to do so will take time."

Morgana frowned slightly, doubt still dancing behind her eyes, but she did not protest nor beg his redemption like she had during their first few meetings. "His House is unfit to rule this kingdom. It is time a new House rose from the ashes of the Pendragon legacy. 

A smile burst across Morgause's face. It had been easy, too easy to win this child over to her side. The girl bubbled with bitterness and jealousy, all of it fuelled by Uther's indifference to her existence. He had never been kind to his bastard daughter and she had seen first-hand the effects of his neglectful rule. The fourteen-year-old still required a lot more corruption, but Morgause had time on her side. Soon Morgana would be nearly as powerful as the necromantic sorceress herself and not even the Abhorsen would be able to undo their carefully laid plans. The kingdom would fall into their laps with little to no resistance. 

"Now sweetling, you must return to the palace."

Fear and hurt crossed Morgana's face like a shadow. "Must I?"

"You must. I need you to spy on Uther and report back to me, remember? You will do best placed at the heart of the spider's web. I know it is hard but I need you to stay with the Pendragons until we are ready to strike."

"When might that be?" Morgana asked petulantly.

Morgause resisted the urge to hit the girl and instead crouched down so they were face-to-face. Merchants and sailors and farmers bustled by all around them noisily, so that it was near-impossible for anybody to overhear their conversation. The close contact to such vibrancy and Life made Morgause's skin itch, but she ignored them and focused on the girl's impertinent expression. Though Morgause would not say it aloud, the girl looked every inch her father, more so than the boy ever had.

"Child, I do not know how long our endeavours will take, but I do know their importance. I know it is hard to return to that prison, but you must do it. Your role is the most important. You are the sword pointed directly towards Uther's heart. Although those in the palace are cruel and corrupt, they will take care of you. It is better you stay. Understand?" Morgause asked in her softest voice.

Morgana nodded and a lock of her dark hair escaped from the hood of her cloak. Morgause scooped it up and tucked it behind her ear, straightening Morgana's hood as she stood. She could feel the Charter pulsing through the girl and it made her stomach turn in revulsion. The things she endured for the greater good. The necromancer shuddered and took a moment to compose herself before continuing with her persuasion.

"Before you go, I have two things to share with you. One of them you can take with you back to the palace. I know it will make you feel better and will be the first step in your new education."

The woman took Morgana's gloved hand in her own and walked her further down King's Road, before leading her away from the throng of activity and into one of the dingy backalleys of Belisaere. A few shadier men looked them over with interest, but a small hand gesture from Morgause sent them scuttling away. Feeling uneasy, Morgana followed Morgause closely. It did not take long for her to realise she was hopelessly lost and would not be able to find her way back to one of the main roads without Morgause. 

Suddenly Morgause stopped. "We are here."

They stood before a battered old door, one of many in the street. Apprehension filled Morgana as she pushed the door open.

"Morgana!"

With the exuberant greeting came a hand that captured Morgana's wrist and pulled her into a tight hug. When she fell back she finally placed a name to the face and immediately returned the first hug.

"I have missed you, Mordred."

"Quite right too," the young man replied with a wry smile. "Mother," he added, nodding a more sombre greeting to his mother as she followed Morgana into the room. "I assume you are here for him."

Morgana gave a start as her eyes fell upon a second man. In her excitement she had missed seeing him the first time round, but now he was all she could look at. He stood in the corner, his shoulders hunched up as though he wished to disappear into the shadows and never be seen again. His hair was long and shaggy and streaked with grey. He had not shaved in weeks. All of this startled Morgana, but none more than his eyes. They were the eyes of a dead man, someone who had no reason to live or go on but somehow managed to wake up every morning and carry on. They scared her.

"Who is that?" she asked in strained voice, finally meeting Mordred's gaze.

"That is Abhorsen."

Morgana felt her heart leap into her throat. Abhorsen.  _The_ Abhorsen. The man she believed could fix everything if only he return to the King and talk some sense into him. The man she heard spent time in the south repairing the damage that years of neglect from the Royal bloodline had caused. The man she believed would serve her once she became Queen. The Abhorsen, a shattered man who no longer looked capable of weilding a sword. And her so-called friends had put him here.

"What have you done?"

"This man is a traitor. He would have prevented you from removing Uther. I needed to detain him."

Morgana glanced at Morgause wildly. "He would never have supported Uther. He and the King have not spoken for fifteen years. What are you?"

"I am Morgause. I am your friend, Morgana. I am on your side and you need to trust me when I say the Abhorsen would have killed you should you ever turn on the King. His first loyality is to the Charter and the realm, and your claim is a weak one. You are a bastard, Morgana, not a trueborn daughter nor a true heir. I did this for  _you_. I did this so you can right the wrongs of your father. When you rule, you will be able to start again with a clean slate. A new Abhorsen will replace this one and he will work for  _you_ , like I do, like Mordred does. Trust me, Morgana."

"I do not know what to think," her voice was hoarse.

"Then return to the palace and think on my words. This Abhorsen is a product of the old age. He would have defended the King despite their differences. It is his duty. We would never have been able to persuade him to support you. I have not killed him, like I might have done when he and I crossed paths. I preserved him. When the time comes, when  _your_ time comes, I will raise his son up and set him free. Think, Morgana, think long and hard on all the things you know of Uther. You know in your your heart that this is the right thing to do."

The silence sounded louded than Morgause's words when she finished speaking and for the first time since meeting them Morgana doubted their intentions. 

"I will think on your justifications, Morgause, but if I find you lied to me ... "

"Then our relationship will end and Uther will reign on until his son succeeds him. I understand."

A pained expression crossed Morgana's face as she thought of Uther retaining his throne. "You said you had two gifts. Give me the second so I can be on my way. I think I have overstayed my welcome."

Morgause nodded and crossed the room. Morgana followed her path and flinched as her eyes once again found the Abhorsen standing meekly in the room. She did not doubt that once the man radiated power and authority, but now it seemed that a confused boy stood in his place. She shuddered and pulled her cloak about her as Morgause returned to her side with a book. 

"This is for you to read while Mordred and I travel the Old Kingdom, gathering supporters for your cause. It is a book about old magic. I thought you might like it."

"Thank you," Morgana said quietly. "I would like to go home now."

Morgause nodded. "Mordred, escort Morgana to the main road and then leave her be. I think she desires some time alone."

The pair left without another word, leaving Morgause alone to consider if she had moved too quickly with the girl. "You are more trouble than you are worth, Abhorsen," she commented lightly. "But I do feel so much better having you under my thumb."

She paced around the room a few times until Mordred returned. "You have gone too far this time, Mother. You know she still idiolises the Charter and the ways of old. To see the Abhorsen like this was a terrible shock. She might never come back to us and what will you do then?"

"Do not worry, Son. I know she will come back. I have seen her heart and I know her. I know her desires and her intentions. She is righteous and driven. She will come back and try to negotiate with us, try to convince us to let him go once our job is done, then we will have seven years to play with her. I think it will be easy to mould her to our ways. She is power hungry like that father she detests so much. Once the Charter no longer satisfies her needs then she will move on to much stronger forces. The child is as good as ours."

"Oh, how it must be to speak with such conviction."

Morgause laughed when she saw the smirk on her son's face. "I have Seen it will be so."

"It hardly seems fair to play the game at all when we know we will win," Mordred remarked.

"I think it makes the playing all the more fun."


	3. Chapter One: The Royal Wedding

The Great Hall bustled with the thrum of productive work as many servants concentrated on their tasks. Arthur lingered in the shadows so that he did not get in the way and tried to ignore the nervous energy that grew inside of him. All of the preparations before him were last minute additions and soon the wedding would begin proper. Arthur doubted he would get through the day in one piece. Ask him to face down opponents in hand-to-hand combat and he would do it without flinching. Ask him to stand before the nobility of the Old Kingdom in order to recite his wedding vows and he was reduced to an incoherent mess.

It was hard to believe he would one day be King.

His eyes followed the unfolding activity warily in the same manner a solider might weigh up an opponent before making his first move. He never could stand pomp and ceremony, but he had to follow protocol, as his father repeatedly told him.

"It seems such a shame."

Arthur gave a start, so preoccupied with his inner turmoil that he had failed to notice another figure join him on the fringes of the commotion. He turned to his left and found one of his knights leaning lazily upon a pillar, eyes alight with mischief as he spied upon the bustle before them. Gwaine.

"What would be a shame?"

"Your marriage to Guinevere. It seems so very restricting to a man such as myself.”

Arthur let out a derisive snort. "To you it would."

"That is because it would be an injustice to all the women in the Kingdom if I were wed. It would mean I could no longer bestow my gracious charm upon the maids and mothers of our fair land. That would be an unforgiveable waste, if you think about it," Gwaine responded with a cheeky grin. Arthur just rolled his eyes.

"Marriage is a reward in and of itself. I say that you of all people would be the most rewarded should you find a woman able enough to cope with you and your antics, but that is a quest for another day. Right now I need to focus on getting through my wedding," Arthur replied. 

"Yes and this is not the place to do it. You are getting in the way."

"Am not," Arthur replied stubbornly, but at that exact moment a servant almost lost a stack of fine crockery as he tried to rush past Arthur whilst bowing at the same time. Both Arthur and Gwaine stepped forwards to catch the uppermost plates as they slid free of the tower and returned them to the servant, who continued to apologise over and over for his mistake. Realising Gwaine was right, and that standing here was not making his nerves go away, Arthur set off towards his chambers. 

Gwaine strode after him, clearly not done with mischief. "I think we should head to the tavern."

"Why is that a good idea?"

Gwaine listed off some reasons. "Last day of freedom, nerves, alcohol is good for nerves."

"Not so much. I will not arrive at my wedding intoxicated. It would be outrageous."

"For the noble Houses of Belisaere, perhaps. Not so much for your loyal knights. The men sworn to lay down their lives in your defence, your most trusted confidents and companions in battle. Come on Arthur. You are a walking mess. At least have one drink with us. Who knows when we might see you again," Gwaine wheedled. "Do it for your men, Pendragon!"

Arthur stopped in the middle of the courtyard, eyes narrowed at Gwaine. "This is the most important day of my life so far and you want me to spend it in the tavern.”

Gwaine fluttered his eyelashes at the Prince. 

Arthur threw his hands up in defeat. "Oh, I give up. If you want to drag me down to the tavern then do it and do it quickly. I swear, if this is another one of your tricks I will take Excalibur to your precious hair." Arthur paused and surveyed Gwaine's face, but the knight was not giving anything away. "I suppose one drink will do me no harm. But only one. More, and things will end in heaps of trouble for the both of us. I can only guess at where we would end up."

"In the stocks, probably. Or the dungeon."

"I would like to see you in the stocks, Gwaine, if only to watch as all the women you have spurned came to collect your debt. You would look good with rotten vegetables dripping down those beautiful locks of yours."

"Have I ever told you that I hate you, Pendragon?"

"Only every day since you were knighted."

"Well, I do."

The two men dropped into a comfortable silence as they moved through the palace grounds. The activity was not confined to the Great Hall, having spilled over into the gardens too. Tents were being erected and guests ticked off as they were shown to their rooms by the finest handmaidens and manservants. It made Arthur's skin itch all over again. He truly wanted to marry Guinevere, that was not the problem. What he did not want were all these pretentious people bestowing gifts and promises and smarmy words all over what should be a special occassion. If matters were up to him, he would have married Guinevere in a quiet ceremony with only his closest friends there to bear witness.

Blearily, Arthur pulled free from his thoughts and set his mind to dealing with the present, his favourite coping mechanism. Dealing with each obstacle as it came had gotten him through a difficult childhood, now it would get him through the remainder of this day.

They crossed the western courtyard with more ease than the central gardens, weaving their way through the arriving groups of nobles. Arthur made a conscientious effort to hide his features from the passerbys, pulling Charter marks forth to disguise his appearance so no-one would think to stop him. Unfortunately, Charter Magic had never been Arthur’s forté. He knew enough to get by, a few battle spells, one or two healing spells to patch up the most basic of wounds, but anymore than that was beyond him. Gwaine thought so too, because as he turned to speak with Arthur, he snorted.

“You will need to do better than that to pull the wool over their eyes.”

“Why? How bad is it?”

“Terrible. You look like your father. Did you intend to age yourself up?”

Arthur scowled and dropped the marks from his mind, while Gwaine pretended to cower in terror. Arthur raised a hand before he spoke. “I know what you are going to say, so do not bother. We do not have time for any more japes.”

“Quite right,” Gwaine replied with a wry smile. “Try this. You will find this disguise tailored to your ability.”

Gwaine’s idea of a disguise turned out to be very old-fashioned: an oversized cloak to cover Arthur’s distinctive blond hair. He pulled the thick material over his head as they approached the western gate, cursing the heaviness of the cloak as he began to heat up. It was a hot, summery day, perfect for a wedding, not so much for wearing travelling cloaks best brought out at the start of autumn.

“Why do I let you talk me into these things?”

“Because I am very persuasive,” Gwaine shot back as they passed a party of guests from House Nemeth. Arthur was sure he recognised Mithian amongst them and ducked down behind Gwaine. They were old childhood friends and if anyone would be able to spot him in a crowd, it was Mithian. “Here we go. The unguarded gate, as promised.”

“You seem to have put a lot of thought into this,” Arthur grumbled as they slipped through the western gate and onto Palace Hill proper. “What is this?”

“A gathering to send you off into married bliss, as it were. We cannot let you leave bachelorhood without a proper goodbye. We would have grabbed you yesterday, had you not been dining with yours and Guinevere’s father.”

Arthur grimaced at that memory. The King had been particularly prickly with Tom, the Chief Wallmaker and Guinevere’s father, and it had been painful to sit through. More and more people were coming to the King these days with requests for help or aid and for reasons unbeknownst to Arthur, his father kept refusing them. He had already alienated the Abhorsen and now he was close to destroying his relationship with the Wallmakers. If not for Arthur’s long-since planned wedding to Guinevere, Uther would have most likely lost them already.

“I would have appreciated a kidnapping last night, now you mention it. Where were you when I needed you?”

Gwaine grinned. “You do not want to know.”

They descended further down the curling path, round and round Palace Hill until they reached King’s Road. If Arthur hoped to find solace from the chaotic set-up above, he would not find it here.

The smallfolk were just as excited about the wedding as the noble Houses and a huge fair had been set-up on the banks of Lake Loesare. Merchants and stallholders touted their goods as children danced and sang and ran about underfoot. A festival feel filled the air and it was hard not to get caught up in the smiles and laughter. Arthur marvelled at it all and at how his life so filled these people with joy. If only he could share in the celebrations. Instead, he found himself tied down by his official duties. The ceremony in the palace would be nowhere near as merry as the revelry in the central valley of Belisaere.

Arthur turned to tell Gwaine the very same, that it was a shame his father would not allow such festivities to occur in the palace, but when he tried to find his friend all he could see were unfamiliar faces. He did not panic. He knew his way around Belisaere well, but it still irked him to find that his friend had led him on a fool’s errand when he should have been preparing himself for his wedding.

He thought about calling out for his friend, but Arthur could hardly hear himself think over the noise and he knew Gwaine would be too caught up in the pandemonium to listen out for his name. Instead, Arthur drifted along with the crowds until he found himself in the less well-off areas of Belisaere.

These alleys and streets were lined with less people, with less friendly expressions on their faces. Arthur placed them as anti-Royalists; men and women who were tired of Uther’s indifferent reign and wanted to elicit change. He knew better than to get close enough to them to be recognised, so immediately he swung around and rushed down the first passage he saw. It was more of a gap between two buildings than an actual road, but it served him well.

Arthur strode on down the lane slowly and found himself in a quieter district. He paused for a moment in order to get his bearings. At the same time, three cloaked figures entered the street. A sense of unease settled over Arthur, though he could not say why. Consequently, he retreated backwards into the shadow of the two buildings he had passed by moments earlier.

“It is set. You shall throw open the gates tonight and we shall come to your aid. We will support your cause tonight, young one. We shall begin a revolution.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold at the mention of a revolution. Too often of late had the guards broken up fights and meetings ran by anti-Royalists, and the increasing frequency of these incidents only served to show how tenuous Uther’s reign over the Old Kingdom now was. To hear of another plan, on the day of his wedding no less, was not to be ignored, even if the figures were more talk than action. He pressed more closely against the wall behind him, hoping they would walk right past without seeing him.

They drifted by close to his hiding place, but none of the figures gave him a second glance, too deep in their conversation to worry about being overheard. As they came to the end of the street, Arthur caught another snatch of their conversation.

“ ... the aqueducts will fall with ease and so shall the corrupt vein of the Bloodline ... tonight is our night ... ”

They disappeared from sight and Arthur let out the breath he had been holding in.

Anti-Royalists were becoming increasingly common amongst Belisaere, but something deep in Arthur’s gut told him that those figures were more than disgruntled common folk. He hurried in the opposite direction they had travelled in, suddenly desperate to get back to the palace and check on the security. If Gwaine had managed to bribe one set of guards, how many others had decided to forsake the Royal bloodline for a sack of gold?

Arthur burst out onto a main road and followed it back into the central valley. He weaved in and out of the revellers, until one caught his arm in an iron grip. In a blind rage, Arthur brought together Charter marks for physical force into his mind and wove them into a spell. Without bothering to see who had captured his arm, Arthur sealed the spell with a master mark and released it. An oomph and groan came from behind, one that was all too familiar.

“Gwaine!”

He tried not to sound angry, but when Arthur became afraid, his temper would fray more easily. Gwaine looked up from the ground, a startled expression on his face, and Arthur’s hard resolve melted away. He offered out a hand for his friend and pulled him to his feet.

“I have to say that was your best spell-work in years.”

Arthur looked up and found Leon, Percival, Lancelot and Elyan peering at him curiously. Still, the tension would not leave his shoulders, even though his nerves were no longer jumping around his chest like rabbits.

“You seem agitated,” Leon commented.

“It is his _wedding_ day. The man has a right to be agitated,” Gwaine chimed in, dusting off his breeches. “Well, not to the point where he assaults his companions. What was that about, Arthur? I never took you for an impulsive spell-caster.”

Arthur paused and wondered if he should say something. Anti-Royalists had been whipping up the smallfolk for months now and this could be just another harmless rant. At the same time, it could be significant. Today was a big day for Belisaere. Looking at his men quietly, Arthur weighed both sides of his internal argument. After a moment, his mind settled and he knew what he must do.

“I heard something that disturbed me. We need to get back to the palace. Now.”

“What about the tavern?” Gwaine began, but he cut off his protests after Percival elbowed him in the ribs. “Okay, fine, back to the palace we go. I do _not_ know why I bother.”

The knights set off, struggling to keep up with Arthur as he strode back up the steep incline, towards the palace. Something had settled in his stomach, a sense of dread that was not caused by his wedding jitters. He needed to get back. He needed to check on the King. He needed ...

“Did something happen?”

Lancelot’s quiet voice interrupted Arthur’s inner monologue.

“I heard something that may or may not be cause for concern. I need to get back and check on our guards, maybe even double them. I ... ” Arthur trailed off. “It worried me. I heard something and it struck a chord and now I am rushing back to the palace. You must think I am a coward.”

“No. I think you have good instincts. They have never led us wrong before.”

“I hope they are not about to start now.” Arthur fell into silent brooding and Lancelot dropped back, letting his friend figure things out for himself.

He knew that his people were unhappy. He knew that his father did not care. He also knew that necromancy was on the rise as more and more of the people who trod the line between benign unhappiness and destructive frustration turned to Free Magic to solve their problems. What he did not know was whether or not those issues were about to come crashing through the palace doors. If they were, he did not know what he or his knights would be able to do about it. The Kingdom’s defences were at their lowest point, though his father would be loathe to admit it.

His mind spun with possibilities. The fall of the Royal bloodline would bring the Kingdom to its knees, although some people might argue it was already on its knees. Arthur shivered again, remembering the malice that had been behind those words and the fear it had stirred in the pit of his stomach. Yes, he might just have found something to be truly afraid of.

They reached the western gate by which they had left the palace, only this time the guards were back on their watch. Arthur scowled as he spotted Owain and Pellinor relaxing together in the warm sunlight. By the time he finished with them, neither man would have cause to look so damn pleased.

“How was the tavern?” Owain began but his words died when he saw Arthur’s expression. “Sire, I told Gwaine it was a terrible idea, not to do it, but he insisted. He told me you needed a reason to celebrate!”

“Perhaps, but it is your job to ensure that this gate is guarded at all times during your watch, even if one of your comrades waltzes up to you and tries to bribe you into leaving your post. He could have been corrupted! Did you bother checking?” The guards shook their heads and Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “How long were you gone?”

“An hour, no more, we swear!”

“Did anyone else come through?”

“No,” Pellinor spoke this time, with conviction. “We might have left our post, but we did not stray far and no-one entered the palace grounds. This I swear.”

His words were imbued with Charter marks for truth and honesty, and Arthur saw clearly that no-one had entered the palace without the say-so of the guards. He relaxed minutely.

“I need you and Owain to visit all the posted guards on both the outer and inner palace walls. Ask them the same question and have them swear on the Charter if need be. Scour the grounds and palace and check for intruders. I have reason to believe some activists want to crash our celebrations. See that they do not. Percival, get Ewan and guard this gate until Owain and Pellinor get back.”

Orders given, Arthur turned on his heel and marched back towards the palace with his knights scuttling along behind him.

“So this is what your mood is about. You have never let the activists get to you before, Arthur, why start now?” Gwaine asked, his long strides matching Arthur’s pace for pace.

“Because today is the day where all the nobility across the Kingdom are in one place. I would say you should have never taken me into Belisaere, but then this would not have come to my attention. I need you to be at your most alert. All of you. Use Charter Magic if you must, just ensure that no-one gets in who should not be here.”

Gwaine went pensive, which led Arthur to believe that the knight was taking him seriously. That could be troublesome in itself as it usually meant that something serious was about to happen. Arthur searched for calm within himself, but wedding nerves mixed with anticipation of trouble, putting relaxation far from his reach.

“What will you do now?” Elyan asked quietly.

“I will go to my chambers and get ready for my wedding. I suggest you do the same, but keep in mind that we might experience trouble,” Arthur sighed. “And I thought the most stressful event of the day would be remembering my vows.”

“That could very well still be the most stressful thing you experience today,” Lancelot pointed out in that reasonable way of his. “But I agree. This calls for caution. I will ensure the knights and guards attending the service are armed in more than ceremonial gear.”

Lancelot bustled off to give Arthur’s orders out, efficient as ever. From the corner of his eye, the Prince spotted Leon and Elyan exchanging worried looks.

“I am not losing my mind!” he exclaimed, whirling on them.

“We know. We were not suggesting that,” Leon responded quickly. “We believe you. However, if your fears are founded and something happens tonight, well, we do not have the appropriate equipment to defend the palace.”

Arthur knew very well which equipment Leon was referring to and it was not your run-of-the-mill shields and swords. The people he had overheard in the alleys of Belisaere could at the worst be Free Magic sorcerers or even necromancers. The city did not have anyone within its walls who could deal with the Dead or Free Magic adepts. Criminals, bandits, and thieves were easily disposed of. Dead Hands and worse were only kept out by the power of running water and alert guards who watched for suspicious individuals. Truly, the peaceful era of Belisaere was being held together by a tenuous thread.

“Do you think the Abhorsen could be reached in time? He may be in the local area,” Arthur asked Leon in a low voice. The older man shook his head. “If we get through this night in one piece, we need to bring him back to Belisaere, if only to talk with him,” he let out a frustrated breath. “Charter above, what a mess we are in and this is purely hypothetical. What would we do if a necromancer truly did want to bring the Bloodlines down?”

“We would truly be at the mercy of the Abhorsen. Perhaps he would hear our prayers and restore the Kingdom to its former glory, like he’s many predecessors have done before,” Elyan murmured.

“Maybe, maybe not. The rift between the Pendragons and the Abhorsen runs deeps. Worse still, I let my father carry on with his madness. I should have challenged him or taken on more of his responsibilities. I am sure he would have been happy to carry on playing King with his noble playthings while I ruled the Kingdom on his behalf,” Arthur sighed unhappily. “Why have I never thought of this before?”

Gwaine scowled. “You are being unnecessarily cruel to yourself, Pendragon. You have not exactly been sitting idle while the Kingdom slipped further into disarray. If things are as you say, we will muddle through. If it is hypothetical, then we will push for change when all is said and done. But do not dare to say you are to blame.”

“We must be in trouble,” Arthur declared.

“Why?”

“Gwaine is being serious.”

Laughter broke out amongst the remaining men, but it was strained. When the knights began to move off in order to attend to their duties, Arthur leant over to grab Leon’s elbow. They shared a significant look and then Leon was off. As a member of House Pendragon, Arthur knew that Leon’s loyalties were completely invested in his and King Uther’s wellbeing. That was why he knew the King would be secure with Leon watching over him.

Not that he doubted his other men; as Knights, an elite group of men sworn to ensure the survival of the Royal bloodline, they were all as reliable and honourable as one another. However, Arthur knew the men from the other Houses respected him far more than his father. They would defend the King, yes, but not with the care and attention that Leon would. Matters would be better with Leon in charge of Uther.

Feeling slightly reassured now he had sent his men out to watch over the palace guards, Arthur resumed his journey to his chambers. Proceedings were fast moving beyond his control and he needed to look presentable at his wedding. It would not take long for him to change clothes. Arming himself would take longer.

As he entered the section of the palace that would lead him to his chambers, he spotted something in the corner of his eye that made his adrenaline levels surge. Renewed anger pounding around his veins, Arthur stormed towards the shady figure, roughly grabbing its wrist so that he could pull it into the noonday sunshine. A female voice gasped in surprise and Arthur immediately dropped her wrist.

“Morgana! What are you doing out here? I thought you were with supposed to be with Guinevere and her maids to help her get ready.”

“She did not have need of me, so I set off to prepare myself for the ceremony,” Morgana replied haughtily, though she averted her eyes as she spoke. “If you do not mind, I have a dress to don and I still have to style my hair.”

“Morgana!” Arthur called again, but she ignored him, all her attention apparently focused on getting away from him as fast as she could. Regret replaced anger as Arthur stared after her. She had been distant with him for some time now, but he had never found an occassion to just sit and talk with her like they used to. Something about the young woman seemed so defeated and hollow, as though she wished for nothing more than to disappear from view.

And yet, well, Arthur could have sworn something dark flickered behind her eyes and her mouth had been set in a determined line. She had resolve and a fighting spirit. Arthur did not doubt that she had machinations underway that would always keep her one step ahead of Uther. She needed them, really, because the King’s ambivalence to her existence would only stretch so far. One of these days he would remember her and his hatred would return. If Morgana had a trick or two up her sleeves, it would serve her well.

Still alert for figures or faces that should not be in the palace, Arthur resumed his trek to his chambers. He managed to make it to his bedchambers without attacking another person and slowly his mind moved from defensive tactics to social embarrassment as he once again remembered he would be getting married that afternoon.

He dressed clumsily, figures fumbling with his leather breeches, so that it took him twice as long to dress. Eventually, he came to his final garment: his surcoat. He gently brought it over his head, dusting it down lightly as the material skimmed the tops of his boots. It bore the Royal sigil, which consisted of a golden tower on a backdrop of red material. It also showed the sigil of House Pendragon: a tiny yellow dragon in the bottom right corner. The addition had been suggested by the King himself in order to establish the Royal bloodline as one of the noble Houses. Unnecessary, since ruling was their birthright, but Uther had liked the modern suggestion put forward by the other Houses and had pandered to their needs accordingly.

A knock at the door scattered Arthur’s tense nerves and it took him a moment to find his voice.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly, revealing Gaius, the Court Physician. The elderly man had practically raised Arthur after his mother died, considering it his duty to school the young boy in matters befitting a Prince, as well as matters that a father might teach to a son on lazier afternoons, like how to make miniature Paperwings imbued with Charter marks of flight. It only seemed right that he be the one to accompany Arthur to his wedding.

“Your mother would be proud, Arthur,” Gaius said softly, his voice breaking a little as he took in the younger man.

“I can only hope so. Each day I aspire to make her proud of me. Is it time?”

“It is, sire,” Gaius replied, all affection gone as he returned to a subservient manner. “Are you ready?”

“I will be in a moment. Can you help me with my scabbard?” Arthur gestured to his sword, Excalibur, which lay on the four-poster before him. If Gaius thought it odd that Arthur had chosen his Charter-spelled sword over a ceremonial one, he did not mention it. Instead, he secured it to Arthur’s belt and adjusted his armour. “Let us go,” Arthur murmured.

They walked solemnly from his bedchambers, heading towards the smaller dance hall where his wedding ceremony would be conducted. Only the highest nobility would be allowed to attend the wedding, all others demoted to the gardens and outskirts of the hall where they would hear, but not see, the proceedings. Afterwards, guests of all importance would move to the Great Hall where a banquet would be held until late. Arthur did not expect to stay long.

“I saw Leon ordering double guards for the King. Did he act on your orders?” Gaius asked softly as they headed to the dance hall.

“Yes. Would you think I had lost my mind if I told you it was based off a wild instinct?”

“No. Your instincts come from your blood and your ties to the Charter. You would be more foolish to ignore them,” Gaius quietened down, thoughtful. “There have been many shifts in the Kingdom of late. I had hoped that nothing would come of them. Now I am not too sure.”

This startled Arthur. “What do you mean?”

Gaius smiled in a tired way and shook his head. “I will tell you after the service.”

They dropped back into comfortable silence, reaching the dance hall at a sedate pace that suited the older man’s groaning joints. Other guests flooded into the hall all around them and melted away to the sides as they were ushered into their seats by a mixture of stressed out servants and sendings. Arthur ignored them and continued onwards to the front of the hall, constantly aware of their stares and whispers. When they reached the raised platform at the front of the room, Gaius patted Arthur’s arm affectionately and went off to his seat.

Arthur stood alone at the front for a long time, until Leon arrived to stand at his left shoulder. They shared a burdened look, one that told Arthur all was well for now, and then a fanfare began to echo around the dance hall in order to announce the arrival of the King.

The whole room stood as Uther entered and watched as this powerfully built man strode down the aisle so fast that he reached Arthur before the fanfare ended. He gave his son a stern look and then sat on the left-side of the room, oblivious to the extra guards posted all around the room for his protection. The guests retook their seats and Arthur shuffled nervously. The next round of music would announce the arrival of his wife-to-be and the start of the ceremony proper.

Seconds past, his heart beat faster, and then the softest chimes of music floated into the air, delicate after the harsh fanfare that had signalled the King’s arrival. Arthur took a deep breath as the doors swung open, waiting for the first sight of Guinevere in her wedding gown. It was not until the sweetness of the tune being played by the Royal musicians was interrupted by gossipers that Arthur noticed something was amiss.

A lithe, black-haired woman dressed in a blood red gown strolled down the aisle lazily. At first, no-one reacted as the new arrival was none other than Morgana. It was only when she flicked her hands in either direction that panic took hold of all the guests. With the gestures came the metallic stench of Free Magic and the instant deaths of Arthur’s extra guards. The remaining ones turned their bows towards the Prince and his father or made to block the exits.

“Brother, I am terribly sorry that I am late to your wedding. Please let me make it up to you with wedding gift befitting a man of your rank,” Morgana called out in a cruel voice, her eyes aflame with pure, unnatural power.

“What is the meaning of this?” thundered Uther.

“Hush now father, I am talking to my sweet brother here. It is his wedding, after all, not yours. Would you like gift one or gift two first? I can promise you they are both memorable.”

Morgana flicked her hand once more and through the doors came Guinevere, her white dress splattered with droplets of blood as more treacherous guards dragged her into the hall. Her eyes were wild with terror as she was flung forwards onto her hands and knees, the sharp point of a sword levelled at her heart as Arthur looked on helplessly.

“What do you want, Morgana?”

“I want your ultimate downfall, my dearest brother. I want your throne. I want you _dead_  and what a simple request that is. Die for me, Arthur. Bleed upon these flagstones so I might rule in your stead and rise this Kingdom up into a glorious age. But before you do perish by my hand, watch on as everything you have ever cared about is pulled apart.”

“You wretched creature! How dare you interrupt this wedding?”

The rest of Uther’s words were cut off as Morgana threw her hand out towards him, her eyes flashing white and blue as they came to life with the fire of Free Magic. The King clutched his throat in desperation, his eyes bulging as he dropped to the ground. Morgana walked to him slowly, her expression one of immense enjoyment as she watched her tyrant choke for air. She released him from her magic when it seemed he was about to pass out.

“Not today, father. This is my moment.”

“What happened to you, Morgana?” Arthur asked in a quiet voice. “I thought we were friends.”

“You were never my friend!” she cried out angrily. This close to her, Arthur could see blisters and burns on Morgana’s lips, the acrid smell of Free Magic strong enough to make him retch. “You are as bad as your father, perhaps worse as you could see what he was doing and you did nothing to stop him!” She paced away, her footsteps burning the stones as her anger seared her body physically. “You cannot repent now, Arthur! Tonight will be your undoing! I will watch you break, starting with the death of your beloved father.”

She turned to face Uther, who had been trying to crawl away from her on his belly. He did not look so powerful now, his neck red and raw and blistered where the Free Magic had touched him. Without much ado or preamble, Morgana drew a sword from somewhere, a terrible black blade that seemed to draw the light from the room, and thrust it through the stomach of her father. She twisted once, twice, three times and pulled it free. No wound showed, yet Uther’s eyes widened in horror and anguish. He slumped to the side, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth and it struck Arthur then that his father was wounded, was bleeding from the inside. Morgana had not wanted to waste a drop.

“Your turn,” she said with a dry chuckle. She rose to her feet, her back still to Arthur who saw what she did not: his knights surging up the aisle, blades shining bright in the sunlight as they slashed and cut their way through treacherous guards.

A hand gripped Arthur’s shoulder and started to drag him away from the scene before him. He found Leon easily, eyes skittering left to right as he looked for obstacles or foes. A screech from behind told them that Morgana had spotted their rapid exit. It would not be long before she came for them.

Arthur risked a look over his shoulder and saw Gwaine rush the Free Magic sorceress who used to be his sister. She hissed angrily as his blade ran through her midriff, but it did little damage. Gwaine tried to tug his sword free when he realised it was doing Morgana no harm, but it would not budge. Morgana backhanded him across the face and Arthur cried out as he watched Gwaine sail into the guests, all of which were frozen solid.

“No!” Leon yelled, yanking harder on Arthur’s arm. “We need to get you out of here. Run, Arthur!”

And he did, his legs pounding harder into the ground in an effort to gain more speed. He and Leon exited the dance hall from the side, but now the rebel guards were after them.

“We will need to slow them down,” he called to Leon, who nodded in agreement.

Spying a display cabinet full of old armour and weapons, Arthur changed his course. Leon did the same, his attention firmly behind them on the men who had slipped from the dance hall unnoticed. Arthur led their flight to freedom, pulling Excalibur free from its scabbard in case his plan did not work and they needed to fight their way out.

Next, Arthur began to weave a spell together, his mind picturing the same marks he used on Gwaine earlier, only this time he wanted them to push the cabinet off the wall and into the path of their pursers. Leon caught up with him and Arthur spotted him muttering under his breath, adding his Charter Magic to Arthur’s own. As soon as they were passed the display, they both spoke the master mark aloud and watched in satisfaction as the solid cabinet fell onto its side, splintering and breaking into pieces that blocked the hallway.

“We need to go back and help the others, get Guinevere out,” Arthur began in the lull that followed.

“No.”

Arthur stared at Leon in shock. “Sorry, what?”

“No. We need to get _you_ out of here. Gwen will be safe. Morgana will not kill her without you around to watch. You are the Royal heir. No, you are the _King_ and for us all to survive, we need you to get away from here. I am taking you to a Paperwing and I am sending you far to the south. Let us do what we have been trained to do and deal with Morgana.”

Arthur had never seen Leon so firm and insistent. Numbly, he allowed Leon to guide him away from the wreckage and towards his escape. They had only just managed to reach one of the towers armed with a Paperwing when they heard an explosion behind them, signalling the arrival of Morgana.

They raced up the stairs as fast as they could. Arthur’s head spun as they climbed higher and higher, going round in circles in a desperate bid to reach the top before Morgana arrived. When they were almost near the door, Leon stopped.

“This is where I say goodbye. Take care, my liege.”

“No. I will not leave you. Come with me, Leon. You are no good dead.”

“I do not think Morgana will spend much time on me. Go! You are wasting our lead.”

No more arguments or protests came to Arthur. With great reluctance and sorrow, he finished the climb by himself.

Despair plagued Arthur. He had never suspected Morgana. She was his sister, his friend, yet she plotted against him. Despite everything he had never suspected her. He believed her to be plotting, always planning to stay ahead of Uther, but never actively scheming to destroy the Royal bloodline. It did not matter that he had doubled the guards or ordered them better armed. None of them would have thought Morgana capable of evil and all of them would have allowed her free passage around the palace. _No_ , Arthur thought, _they had allowed her free passage_. She was the perfect weapon, waiting at the heart of Belisaere to undo the fragile hold the Pendragons had on the throne.

He collapsed against the Paperwing, heart in his mouth as he tried to reconcile his memories of Morgana with the creature he had seen in the dance hall. His mind whirred and then he fell to his knees, so distraught that he no longer had the energy to flee. He wanted to stop running away and let death claim him. He felt unworthy.

The sound of wood cracking and bending whipped through the air. Arthur blearily glanced at the door, waiting expectantly for his sister to burst through and butcher him to death the way she had their father. Using Excalibur to balance, Arthur heaved himself to his feet. If he was going to die, he wanted to do it standing.

More slamming broke the silence, the bang, bang, bang pounding in Arthur’s head like the beat of his heart. He extended Excalibur out before him and waited.

The door burst into splinters and fragments, pieces of wood peppering Arthur’s face as he watched expectantly. A shadowy figure stumbled through the door and then an urge to live sizzled throughout Arthur’s veins, igniting in him a fierce passion he had not known himself capable off. He leapt forward, slashing Excalibur through the air, only to have his sword meet another blade mid-air. Sparks flew and the dust cleared, revealing the treacherous face of his sister.

“You will not escape so easily, big brother,” she cackled, power radiating with every word so that Arthur found himself pinned in place. Excalibur dropped to his side uselessly as his arms came down. “I did not think you a coward, but then people are always full of surprises, even the ones you think you know.”

“You would know that better than most, Morgana,” Arthur spat back. “I never thought you would betray us, betray the Kingdom.”

“I am doing this for the Kingdom. I am taking the throne from you and your tyrant father so that I can fix the damage you created!” Morgana screamed, flames falling from her fingertips in her rage. “You! You are in the wrong, not I! And now you shall die!”

Morgana raised her dark sword, preparing to bring it down on Arthur. He closed his eyes in response, expecting death. He wondered what awaited a man like him beyond Death, but then realised it did not matter. All men were equal in Death.

He heard the swoosh of the sword as it rushed down to meet him, but rather than a death blow, Arthur felt the sword cut into his side. He gasped in agony as fiery pain burst through his chest, his fingers clasped to the wound as blood began to seep free. When he looked up, he found Morgana battling Lancelot who had distracted her at the last minute.

“Get into the Paperwing and go!” Lancelot ordered.

Arthur did not need telling twice. He stumbled towards the Paperwing, smearing blood upon it as he pulled himself into the pilot’s seat. He thrust Excalibur down by his feet and began whistling the marks he would need to take flight. He had never been a good pilot at the best of times and he prayed that he would make it away from the palace in one piece.

A horrifying scream came from the tower summit as Morgana spied her prey getting away from her. She wacked Lancelot across the temple viciously with the hilt of her sword and raced towards Arthur, who rushed through the last of the Charter marks. The Paperwing awoke and the winds picked up, carrying the Paperwing up and away from Morgana as she came within reach. Arthur heard her mutter some Free Magic spell and panicked slightly, his notes going awry as he attempted to order the Paperwing to fly to the south. The winds grew erratic, which proved helpful as they lightly brushed the Paperwing out of harm’s way.

Fire and magic and darkness skimmed the edge of the Royal Paperwing, but Arthur was free, climbing higher and higher into the sky. He turned the Paperwing with a merry, little tune and then he was gliding in the direction of the Wall and relative safety. Knowing that the immediate threat was gone, Arthur felt his energy drain away. The swaying of the Paperwing rocked him and then the Prince was unconscious.


	4. Chapter Two: The Boy With A Gift

Ealdor sat on the wrong side of the Ratterlin, in the place the rest of the Old Kingdom called “the Borderlands.” Only fools tried to set up towns or villages there, so said the northerners, and yet there stood a collection of hamlets and little settlements. Ealdor itself was born when a ragged band of travellers grew tired of fleeing their predators and decided to fight back by making a final stand. Incredibly enough the descendents of those original travellers were still standing, skilled and lucky enough to fend off both the living and Dead who often came calling with troublesome intentions.

The Southern Plateau on which Ealdor stood was a hard place to live and those who lived there were hard too: tough, resilient and untrusting, even towards their own as Merlin discovered upon entering his teenage years. An outcast amongst outcasts, Merlin found living on the fringes of Ealdor the best philosophy. There were numerous reasons why he would never be accepted by his neighbours and the most prominent among them was his ghostly pale skin, white enough to make you believe sunlight had never touched it.

He was death-bleached, a terrifying and all too common sight in the southern regions of the Kingdom. His heritage was Charter-bound, but that did not mean the other villagers cherished the sight of Merlin. He could hardly look at himself either, yet could not fight the compulsions that urged him to walk in Death, that made him hunger for the knowledge held in _The Book of the Dead_. Though he spurned the role of Abhorsen-in-Waiting, Merlin could no more resist the call of his blood than he could cut his own heart out. Still, he did his best to live a simple life as the apprentice of the village healer, Alice.

His work as an apprentice healer often meant travelling with Alice to other villages or hamlets to deliver aid. There were surprisingly few Charter Mages in the area and fewer still that were adept at the art of healing. Alice, being the most skilled of all healers, tended to be in high demand, but her age betrayed her and made it hard to keep up with the workload. When she had seen the potential in Merlin, she had taken him on, though not before giving him a searching look fierce enough to make grown men tremble. Merlin remembered it well. He had felt as though the older woman could see through his facade and into his heart, could see that what he ran from and knew his lies from the truth. Merlin had expected her to call him out and order honesty, but the old woman had only shrugged and accepted him as her apprentice. The role saw him become her legs, which he often used to run errands across Ealdor rather than deal with people face-to-face by healing them.

As such, he found himself beyond the borders of Ealdor searching for the herbs necessary for a simple poultice intended to alleviate the pain of inflamed joints. The task was straight forward and Merlin did not plan on lingering outside Ealdor for long. Armed with only a small dagger and his wits, he would be an easy target for anyone passing by, including those he lived with.

The noonday sun hung high in the sky above his head, warming the back of his neck as he bent over to reach the plants beneath his feet. He hummed cheerfully, enjoying the solitude and feeling of relaxation. Good moods rarely came to Merlin and he was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

“Merlin!”

The distressed cry disturbed Merlin’s dreaming and he immediately felt his cheerful mood slip from between his fingers. He straightened and turned to face the newcomer: Will, his childhood friend.

“There has been an accident south of Ealdor and you are needed. Alice is too weary to travel and it is quite some distance away. Oskar’s horse got wounded by some petty thieves hoping to steal the harvest and the beast fell on him, trapping his legs. Alice said to leave the herbs until tomorrow!” Will babbled when he caught his breath.

Merlin did not need any more encouragement than that. Thrusting his bag into Will’s hands, he turned in the direction of Ealdor, his feet pummelling the hard ground mercilessly as he ran. He needed to reach Oskar before the afternoon sun disappeared from the horizon and there were no horses to spare. It would be a long trek.

He heard Will nosily running behind him, not yet recovered from his first sprint. Together they ran across the flat plains, kicking dust and dirt up in their wake. When exhaustion threatened Merlin, he brought Charter marks for energy and resolve to his mind in order to bring about a second wind. He cast the spell as they jogged and a golden light enveloped both Merlin and Will, who was finding the journey a lot harder than Merlin.

They eventually reached the edges of the harvest and Merlin cast his gaze about, searching for the injured Oskar and his horse. He found a small crowd in the distance, about three or four other men who stood grouped about the lame beast and Oskar. As Will and Merlin neared the farmhands, he heard the pained cries of Oskar and the sad whinnying of the horse. Both were sweating with exertion and looked near to unconsciousness.

“Where is the injury?” Merlin asked as he approached. All the men scowled at the same time and none seemed set to speak. Merlin frowned, annoyance surging throughout him as once again the other villagers treated him like a Free Magic construct. “Well? Will you answer me or will we stand around waiting for the Dead to descend?”

Mentioning the Dead was the wrong thing to do. All the men bristled and straightened up, their eyes dark and unwelcoming as they took Merlin in. The young man let out a frustrated breath and Will stepped up, as he usually did, to ease the tension.

“Alice could not come. She sends her apologies and stresses that Merlin is more than able to heal Oskar in her place. You need to cooperate with him or it will be as he says. We will find ourselves stranded in open ground with no defence again any Dead who happen to stumble by. Please, tell us where Oskar is most hurt.”

The men grumbled a moment, but they could not argue with Will. “Both his legs are hurt and he reckons he cannot breathe properly. I think the damn beast is crushing his lungs, but we cannot get a good look at his chest.” The man brandished in Oskar’s general direction. “Do what you must and do it quickly. I do not want to be here come mid-afternoon. I reckon there is a storm brewing.”

All the farmhands moved off, each giving Merlin one last look of loathing as they went to collect their tools for the return trip to Ealdor. He tried not to let it get to him, before focusing on the mess in front of him.

“Can you hear me Oskar?” he asked quietly. The man grunted. “I am going to move the horse, if I can, but first I will imbue you with marks for numbness and pain relief. Is that alright?”

Oskar nodded, his face scrunched up in pain as the horse across his legs twitched and convulsed. Fingers poised in a spell-casting stance, Merlin focused his mind on the images he wished to draw in the air. He thought of the pain relief, of feeling numb, of the sensation of security and then drew the marks in the air, one after the other. The air shimmered with magic and power until his fingers traced the master mark, releasing the mist so that it could settle over Oskar’s trembling body. The effect was instantaneous. No more did the man shake or groan in pain. He lay still, leaving Merlin free to deal with the horse.

“Can you heal the horse too?” Will questioned curiously.

Merlin examined it closely. The shaft of an arrow was embedded in its ribs, the side of its body slick with blood. The wound bubbled whenever the horse breathed, indicating that the lungs had been punctured. Merlin gently probed the animal, but he knew it was too late. His sense of Death told him the animal would soon slip away.

“It would be more merciful to kill the animal now, rather than let it die in this agonisingly slow manner,” he said as he straightened up. “We should kill it before we move it. Doing otherwise would be cruel.”

He took his dagger from its sheath and stood over the animal hesitantly. Merlin was no stranger to Death, but never before had he delivered it to another living creature. Seeing his friend’s reluctance to harm the beast, Will took the dagger from Merlin and promptly slit the throat of the horse. Merlin felt it die, a quiet death like the snuffing out of candlelight. Hardly traumatising, yet Merlin still stared at the dead horse as though he had just witnessed a massacre.

“I would have thought you were used to death by now, seeing as you walk in it so often,” Will said lightly. He saw Merlin’s traumatised expression and immediately turned apologetic. “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.”

“You did not. I do walk in Death. I feel it a lot too, especially near that broken Charter Stone. I do not fear death or what comes after it.” _I fear myself_ , he thought silently, _I fear what I might be and what I might do with this gift_. “Thank you,” he said instead. “Now to move it and free Oskar.”

They wrestled with the horse a while, the beast so heavy and cumbersome that moving it proved difficult. They managed to pull the majority of the horse away from Oskar and then changed tactic, dragging the man from under the animal. He did not protest or show signs of pain, his face giddy and ecstatic from the effects of Merlin’s spell.

“I want whatever he is on,” Will joked.

“Hilarious,” Merlin replied in a dry voice, far too used to Will’s lame jokes to muster a wittier reply.

Now that Oskar lay before them, Merlin could see that both his legs were broken. A simple mending charm would set them right again, but Merlin would first have to straighten them out to make sure he mended them in the right manner. It would not do to fix the break, only to have Oskar’s legs sticking out at the wrong angle. That would mean re-breaking the legs, which would take more time than getting it right first time. Out of habit, Merlin cast his eyes to the sky, noting the first of the predicted storm clouds.

“We need to hurry,” Will commented when he saw where Merlin was looking.

“Yes. Can you lay his left leg out so that the bone is where it is supposed to be? I will work at his right leg. I need to match the break up as accurately as possible.”

Both men set to work on each of Oskar’s legs, pulling and shifting them ruthlessly. Now that the injured man was spelled he no longer winced every time his legs were moved, making the process of re-setting them that much easier. All the while Merlin murmured under his breath, his words Charter marks that aided him in his work and helped speed along the mending process. His fingers lightly ran up and down Oskar’s leg, prodding here, shifting there, realigning the fragmented bone with tiny movements.

“I think I have it,” Will declared.

“Go get the other workers then. His legs will be fixed, but worn-out and tired. He will need to be taken back to Ealdor in one of their carts. They will listen to you,” he added bitterly.

“Aye, my lord.”

Will mockingly bowed at Merlin as he resumed his chanting, focusing his magic and spell on Oskar’s second leg. Without Will around, Merlin let the strain show, the duel effort of maintain the spell made from Charter Magic while suppressing the urge to use magic that seemed to bubble within him naturally. He shuddered as his hands locked around Oskar’s leg, his breath ragged as he tried to ignore the urge to spell-cast without Charter marks. It felt like an itch, a terrible itch at the back of his mind, and the more he ignored it, the more desperately he wanted to scratch it.

“The itch” had always been there, probably since the day he was born. All Merlin’s early memories consisted of “the itch”, the well of magic that seemingly came from inside his heart rather than from the flow of the Charter. As a young boy he had been careless, using “his” magic rather than Charter Magic. He used it to bring things to him, used it to conjure stories in smoke, used it just to feel it swell up inside of him so he felt comforted. When he got older he realised it was wrong. Any magic not a part of the Charter could only be bad, cruel and wanton, used for nefarious deeds: Free Magic. Then he suppressed it and set about being anything but a creature of evil.

His breath caught in his chest. All his fears and anger and hurt came bubbling to the surface. Falling forward, Merlin pressed his hands into the earth in order ground himself and shed the urge to tap into his magic. He felt the power swell in his chest, grow in size until it drowned out all his other senses and then it was gone. When he looked down, grass and flowers had flourished in the places his hands had been resting. Fear shuddered through his body and settled in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. He allowed himself to feel weak for a moment longer and then returned to his task.

By this point Will was returning with the farmhands, two of which were on horseback. Merlin rose to his feet proper and waited for them to reach him. None of the men seemed happy or grateful, but the attitudes of the villagers did not surprise Merlin anymore. They never appreciated his acts of kindness, but then he did not work to please them. He worked to hide from his fears.

“He is fit to travel, but I suggest you place him in a cart for comfort. His legs are healed and the wound aged. It will be as if weeks have passed since his injury as opposed to hours. If you set off now, you should make it back to Ealdor before the sun is completely hidden by the clouds,” Merlin informed them.

“I suppose we should thank you, boy,” one of the men said begrudgingly.

“I do not expect thanks, nor should you give it if you do not mean it,” Merlin replied sullenly. “I will help you load Oskar onto a cart and then I will be on my way.”

It took them a while to locate a cart big enough to fit Oskar on to. By the time the man was safely loaded onto a cart, the sun had all but disappeared from the afternoon sky. Thick, black clouds swirled overhead, threatening imminent rain without making good on their promise. Merlin watched quietly as the remaining men mounted up and set off into the distance. With their problem solved, they could happily go on their way without giving Merlin or Will a second thought. It made him furious, but after years of their neglect, Merlin hardly bothered to retain his anger.

“How do they expect us to get home?” Will asked nervously. “It is not like there are any mounts left and Ealdor is still a long way off.” He glanced up at the clouds as they intensified, the sun all but gone from the afternoon sky. “They cannot expect us to walk.”

“They do,” Merlin responded. “They always do.”

“I suppose we should start heading back then. I know a great many people who have been caught unawares in better circumstances than this.”

Deaths amongst the settlements in the Borderlands were common, whereas living to an old age was a rare feat that many viewed as an honour. Both their thoughts became consumed with the memory of a young woman who had been mauled to death by Shadow Hands a week earlier. She had been making a journey to a neighbouring village where she was due to get married, except she did not make it. At least, she did not make it as one of the living. Her odds of arriving safely had been better than Merlin and Will’s, which both men knew well.

“Maybe there is a spare horse around. That will speed up the return trip,” Merlin suggested optimistically.

“Unless you plan on animating that dead horse, I do not think so.” Will glanced around the fields. “I suppose we better start walking and rely upon our wits to get us back in one piece. Do you think you have enough energy left to defend the both of us, if push comes to shove?”

“Maybe. It is hit and miss at the moment. A lot of it depends upon what we face. A Free Magic creature will make it hard to reach the Charter, whereas a Dead Hand can be sent back to Death with the right whistle or clap. Hopefully it will rain soon. That will slow any creature from Death down enough to give us the edge if we had to flee.”

Will nodded slowly and though he tried hard to look reassured, his face was drawn with worry. The first rumbles of thunder boomed around them, though no rain came with the sound. It felt much too like the herald of trouble to Merlin, so he began to walk from the abandoned fields at a controlled pace when all he really wanted to do was run as fast as he legs would allow. Will followed suit, copying Merlin’s restrained manner of walking.

“I feel like something is watching us,” he whispered to Merlin when they were halfway across the fields of crops. “Is there a presence out on the plains? Do you sense something?”

Merlin knew exactly which sense Will was referring to, one unique to him and others of his Bloodline. Without alarming his friend, Merlin cast his sense of Death out around them in a wide sweep, trying to pick up the presence of any Dead creatures or even humans recently killed. The only thing to really send shivers down his spine was the dead horse, which had already crossed beyond and into the river of Death. Still, Merlin knew Will had intuitively picked up on something sinister.

“I cannot sense any of the Dead, but that does not mean we are not being stalked.”

“How reassuring.”

While they stood still, lightning cracked above their heads, blinding them with sudden brightness that left spots upon their vision long after it had faded away. The clouds seemed to be closer to the ground now, drinking in whatever natural light of the day remained. Merlin’s fingers trembled slightly as he organised them into a spell-casting stance, his eyes skittering over every shadow and shape surrounding them as he strained his ears for any sound of an enemy approaching. His mind wandered to the little set of panpipes he owned, currently hidden under a floorboard in his bedroom. He now fervently wished he had brought them along, but no, he would deal with whichever threat prowled on the plains without their assistance.

Will shuffled from foot-to-foot nervously, squinting at the sky. He had keener ears than Merlin, so it did not surprise him when Will heard something he could not. "There is something in the sky," Will croaked, pointing it out for Merlin's benefit. "What is it? Gore Crows?"

Merlin followed the direction of Will's finger and watched in surprise as a blur of red and gold raced across the sky, having broken through the dark mass of clouds at inhuman speeds. Upon closer inspection, he placed the object as a Paperwing. It looked set to collide with the ground. Merlin guessed the pilot must have lost control of his Charter spell, or else been overwhelmed by the natural winds that had come on so suddenly in such great strength.

“A Paperwing,” Merlin informed Will, better educated in these matters than his friend. “One headed directly for disaster. We ought to do something to help the pilot.”

“ _We_?” Will asked incredulously. “ _We_ are in enough trouble as it is, Merlin. _We_ are still far from home. No good will come of the Paperwing. _We_ should start running for Ealdor now and never look back. An early dusk spells an early death for those foolish enough to leave their homes. Do not tempt fate, my friend.”

Merlin, who felt like his whole life had been built on tempting fate, said nothing. His eyes followed the path of the Paperwing until he was sure he knew where it would crash. He knew two paths lay ahead of him: the right one and the easy one. It would be really simple to go home with Will and pretend like they had seen nothing on the plains. Whatever lay in the Paperwing would die out here and would probably never be found. That path had problems of its own; even now, they might not make it back to Ealdor in one piece, if at all. The smart money lay with that decision. It had much better odds.

The right thing to do, the thing his _father_ would do, was to try to reach the Paperwing before it hit the ground. It still had a long way before it impacted the earth beneath it and if Merlin found it while it was still in the air, he could soften the blow with a spell. If the Paperwing did crash before he got to it, he could still help the pilot by healing him or taking him to safety. Of course, additional use of Charter Magic would tire him out further and slim his chances of reaching Ealdor alive down to a sliver. If he truly wanted to survive today, he would turn away. But his Blood sang out and duty awoke inside his heart. He remembered his fears and reminded himself of his promise to do good in order to quash whatever monster dwelled within him.

Without another word to Will, he began to run in the opposite direction to Ealdor, increasing speed until he was sprinting away from his friend. He knew deep down that Will would not follow, but it still hurt when he heard his friend begin a similar dash towards home. He knew things were better this way; Will could not offer much help, but his presence would have been reassuring all the same. Instead, he journeyed alone.

Spots of rain began to splatter around Merlin’s feet as he wove through the shrubs, plants and trees that dotted the plains intermittently. He often lost sight of the Paperwing, but he had a pretty good idea of where it would make impact. Urgency dogged his steps and he pushed his body harder, draining every last drop of energy in him.

The wind picked up around him and began a continual assault on anything not attached to the ground. It snatched cruelly at Merlin’s clothes and drove the rain directly into his face, but he ignored both and pushed forwards. A chill crept through his bones as he questioned his decision. What if he was running into danger? This could very well be a trap, meant to test him or kill him.

Implications whirred around Merlin’s mind. Outsiders did not often travel this far south and clearly something terrible had befallen the Paperwing's pilot, else they would have safely brought the Paperwing in to land. If they had been attacked, then those who had harmed them could be close behind. Then again, the pilot of the Paperwing could be trouble in their own right. There were no clear signs indicating whether the Paperwing came in peace.

Aware that he could be heading deeper into trouble, Merlin slowed. He glanced at the sky and located the Paperwing easily, a streak of red amongst the black of the clouds. It was much lower now and spinning wildly in wide circles, the wind forcing it down and around with such strength that even a skilled weather mage would struggle to retain control. Fearing he was out of time, Merlin stopped dead in his tracks and began pulling all manner of marks free from the Charter. Marks for control, calm, deceleration blazed into life in his mind’s eye. He added the typical marks used in the flight of the Paperwing and felt a tenuous connection with it open up. Picking out a master mark, he sealed the spell and breathed it out in a puff of misty air. He caught it in cupped hands and steadied himself.

The Paperwing took a sudden dive and began spiralling downwards, faster than Merlin anticipated. He threw his spell with all his strength, more mental will than physical force used to manoeuvre it towards the Paperwing. He held his breath as he watched the marks flare into existence, releasing it when they impacted the Paperwing. Except it only slowed marginally, the marks straightening out the Paperwing’s flight path so that it now fell in a line rather than a spiral.

Panic overtook Merlin’s sense as he helplessly watched from the ground. Gold and red blurred together and to Merlin it looked all too much like blood, like a wound torn through the sky. He ran forwards, madly thinking he could stop it with his body. All the while tension and fear overwhelmed him, and the control he usually held on the spring of magic inside his heart slipped. With his emotions raging and drowning out logic, Merlin’s natural magic took over. It responded to his greatest need, the need to stop the Paperwing, and then it slowed all the way down, crashing into gravel without experiencing any damage.

When the power dissipated, or returned to wherever Merlin had summoned it from, so too did Merlin’s energy. He collapsed to the ground, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Part of it came from exhaustion, but there was a part of Merlin that was aware of what he had just done and all of its implications. Tears dribbled down his cheeks as he lay flat against the ground, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

Once he had caught his breath, which might have taken minutes or hours, Merlin was not entirely sure, he began to climb to his hands and knees. Crawling, he made his way to the still Paperwing. The eye was closed again, the whole craft dormant again now the journey was at an end. The pilot had not put in an appearance yet and Merlin knew he would surely die if the pilot revealed themselves to be an enemy of the Charter. He could barely stand, let alone fight, yet he still felt like it was less than he deserved. Tiredly, he put his hands on the Paperwing and pulled himself up.

In the pilot’s seat lay a young man, perhaps a year or two older than Merlin. A mass of blond hair lay messily upon his head and his hands were folded upon his side. Upon closer inspection, Merlin saw that the man had been stabbed and his hands were protectively guarding his injury. Carefully, Merlin leant towards the Paperwing pilot and brushed his hair aside to reveal a Charter mark. It seemed uncorrupted, but that did not stop Merlin from pressing two fingers against it. A flare of light and the unending sense of the Charter told Merlin the man was not a Free Magic sorcerer. Relief settled over him.

A glimmer of light caught Merlin’s eye as he moved back from the young man and when he checked, he found a sword tucked away in the bottom of the Paperwing. He pulled it free, immediately noting it was a creation of the Wallmakers. Only they could successfully inscribe Charter marks into inanimate objects, like swords. Wallmaker swords were the best you could own: stronger, more durable and charmed to do damage against the Dead and lesser Free Magic constructs. This man was clearly very important.

Merlin held the sword up to the light and read its name aloud. “Excalibur.”

Recognition struck Merlin. This sword belonged to the heir to the throne, Prince Arthur Pendragon, which meant the sleeping figure could only be him. The Royal colours of the Paperwing suddenly made sense. The injured man had been sent away for his own protection, which meant something serious had happened in Belisaere. Merlin briefly wondered if his father was there now, trying to fix matters, then he shrugged it off. What did it matter to him where his father made his home now? The man had walked out of him and his mother years earlier, effectively closing the door between them.

Needing a moment to recover from all these revelations, Merlin slid down the side of the Paperwing, his hands still wrapped around Excalibur’s hilt. It was a magnificent blade, the marks engraved on its surface blazing into life whenever Merlin’s hand moved an inch. It would be a great help in getting both Merlin and his sleeping Prince back to Ealdor, though any ideas on how he would achieve that still eluded Merlin. He sighed and let the last of the day’s rain soak him through, puddles of water pooling around his feet as he emptied his mind of all thought.

Slowly, Merlin pieced himself back together enough to make it to his feet. He leaned heavily on Excalibur as he stood to let the world reassert itself at the right angle. The first thing he needed to do was take a look at Pendragon’s injury. If he could get his unconscious companion walking then it would be a lot easier to get back to Ealdor. Of course, getting him to a fit enough state to walk was wishful thinking. The very best Merlin could do in his current state was knit the flesh back together, ensuring that Pendragon did not die from complications. Either way, fixing the gash up seemed as good a place to start as any.

Merlin turned to face the Paperwing while his mind searched for the Charter. It took a few attempts, but he eventually hooked on and set about moving Pendragon’s hands from his side. The moment he touched the Prince’s hand, a jolt of electricity burst through him and the man’s hand shot up, locking around Merlin’s wrist.

“Who are you?”

His voice was full of suspicion and his grip strong for someone so badly wounded. Merlin tried to pull away, but Pendragon tugged him down further.

“Let go! I am trying to help you!”

Pendragon’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Merlin shifted his hair from his forehead to reveal his Charter mark. “If it will make you feel better then check for yourself. I am a healer from a local village. I was trying to tend to your injury.”

The man disregarded all of Merlin’s words apart from “check for yourself,” which he promptly did. He seemed satisfied with what he found and dropped back into the pilot’s hammock, releasing Merlin’s wrist as he did.

“So I did not make it out of the Kingdom,” he stated.

“No. You are on the Southern Plateau, south of a village called Ealdor. If you can walk, I will guide you there myself so you can be seen to properly. Do you think you can move?”

Pendragon began to reply, but his words were choked off when he saw a shadow fall over Merlin. “Look out! Behind you!” Arthur cried. Somehow Merlin managed to duck and avoid the shambling Dead Hand that had crept up behind him.

Since the excessive use of magic had numbed his senses, Merlin had not picked up on the Dead Hand’s presence. He cursed himself and stepped backwards as the Dead Hand chose to finish him off first. He still held Excalibur, the blade thrumming in his hands as though it wanted nothing more than to destroy the Hand. Feeling slightly emboldened by the sword’s magic, Merlin slashed forwards.

The blade caught the Hand in the side of the head, lopping off an ear and part of the cheek so that a flap of skin came loose. That did not stop the Hand, who seemed oblivious to the body parts it was losing as it reached for Merlin. Desperation awoke in Merlin’s bones and he lurched forward, Excalibur straight out so it ran through the Hand’s middle. Charter marks sparked and sizzled, searing flesh from the Hand, but it still stood. Only complete decimation would stop it from tearing Merlin’s head from his neck.

Again and again Merlin darted forwards, hacking flesh from the Hand, only for the spirit tied to corpse to keep coming at him. He felt tired, his muscles aching with the effort it took to hold Excalibur aloft. He thought of the panpipes again, of the power contained within them, and sighed.

Keeping Excalibur pointed outwards to keep the Hand at bay, Merlin prepped himself for the sheer effort his next tactic would take from him. Steeling his will, Merlin let out a sharp whistle. The sound cut across the plains louder than any normal whistle had a right to sound, marking it as the call of Saraneth, or at least a close impersonation. The Hand froze as its will became bound to Merlin and a small fight ensued between the two of them. Despite his tiredness, Merlin eventually won. Hands were weak at the best of times and this one was far from its necromancer. _Good odds_ , Merlin thought wearily.  

Having hooked the Hand, Merlin dropped Excalibur down and leaned heavily upon the sword. He felt the Hand struggle against his bind, its presence pounding in the back of his skull like the start of a headache. Fearing it would not take much for the Dead Hand to break free, he straightened.

“Go straight to the waters of Death and lay down in them. Let the currents carry you through all the gates, until you reach the Ninth Precinct. Rest your weary spirit and let the inevitable end wash away all your troubles. Go now and leave the living.”

His commands heard, the Hand shucked off the remnants of the corpse it wore and disappeared beyond sight into a place where few living beings walked. Merlin crumpled to the ground once it was gone, well and truly worn out. There would be no moving from here until he had recovered from the wear and tear of battle and magic.

As he lay in the mud he heard something heavy fall from the Paperwing. When he looked up he saw a halo looming above him and thought of angels, though of course they did not exist. Angels were an Ancelstierran construct, a part of their magic-less religion, though if they did exist Merlin imagined they would look like the figure standing in front of him.

“You are the Abhorsen.”

Merlin shook his head, burying his face deeper into the mud. “No,” he groaned.

“This is no time for games!” Arthur snapped, anger flashing across his face as he stared down at this strange figure lying in the mud. “I am in deep trouble and need the help of the Abhorsen. Now tell me straight, are you him or his apprentice?”

“Neither,” Merlin muttered, rolling onto his back. “I am a healer.”

Arthur snatched Excalibur from the stranger’s hands. “I heard you. You used necromantic magic to send that Hand away. I know you only succeeded, sorry, _barely_ succeeded because it was weak and meant purely to finish me off, but you did use the gift of the Abhorsens to banish it. Do not lie to me. The Kingdom is in peril. Now answer me again. Are you the Abhorsen or his apprentice?”

“I am his son.”


End file.
